


Hollow

by jujus_writing_corner



Series: Whumptober 2019 [14]
Category: Real Person Fiction, Youtube RPF
Genre: Blood, Gore, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Whumptober 2019, vomiting mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-16 05:27:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21030983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jujus_writing_corner/pseuds/jujus_writing_corner
Summary: Yandereplier goes on a revenge-driven rampage against the people responsible for Dark's death, but it doesn't truly make him feel any better. Direct sequel to "The Business End."Whumptober Day 14: Tear-stained





	Hollow

**Author's Note:**

> This prompt was originally gonna be something different, but I decided I had to continue "The Business End." Yan needs some closure!
> 
> Well, he needs it, but we don't always get what we need ;w;
> 
> Enjoy!

The moment the bullet goes through Darkiplier’s skull, something snaps inside of Yandereplier.

All he knows is red, all he knows is killing. All he feels is blood pouring over him and the resistance of bone and muscle against his katana. He hears screaming, more gunshots, his own blood, still inside him, rushing past his ears. He doesn’t need to think about avoiding bullets or knives or fists, he just does. His feet dance over the deep maroon concrete floor, his katana cleaves off limbs, decapitates heads, splits open ribcages. He thinks of nothing but words in a loop. _Kill. Kill. Kill. Make them pay. Make them bleed. Kill. Kill. Kill._

The gang boss, for all his talk, goes down so easy. He bleeds just like the rest of them. His henchmen are less than nothing. Yandere’s katana rips through their paper skin, shatters their glass bones. There’s so many of them, but it’s not a challenge, it only makes it more fun. Yandere, for all his rage, is a creative soul even now. A severed head can be a bludgeon. A rope of intestine can be a garrote. A rib, pointy-end first, can be a dagger. There’s endless possibilities.

Alas, there are not endless victims, and before long only Katashi is left, cowering across the room away from Yandere. His gun is out of bullets, his hourglass is nearly out of sand. Yandere approaches him, staggering under the weight of adrenaline, fury, and liters of blood in his clothes.

“G-Get away from me!!” Katashi screams. His voice is too deep to ever be shrill, but it’s as close as it can get.

“I’ve wanted to kill you since the moment we meant,” Yandere tells him, voice high-pitched and over-dripping sweetness to match his unhinged grin. “You insulted me to my face, acted like I was stupid and worthless. Yami told me I couldn’t hurt you, I had to hold my tongue so he could work with your boss. And look how that turned out.” His face breaks into anguish for a moment, but the look leaves him as he shakes his head with a sigh. “But I’ll thank you, because you decided to bring me here so I would have a reason to pay back every word you ever said about me.”

“Wh-What the hell are you?” Katashi gasps, scrabbling futilely against the wall as Yandere comes closer. “S-Some kind of _onryō??”_

Yandere laughs out loud at that, throwing his head back and cackling. He wipes away a tear, not minding that it smears the blood on his face.

“If I was an _onryō_ I wouldn’t kill you. I’d let you live, but I’d curse you, haunt you, make sure you lose everyone you love and live a long life of suffering.” Yandere stares at Katashi as he nods eagerly at the chance to be spared. Yandere sneers, and when he speaks, his voice is oozing disgust. _“Yowamushi,”_ he growls, “You have no honor. The days you’ve already lived are more than you deserve.” He raises his katana as Katashi freezes and goes pale. “Life is wasted on you.”

Katashi dies like the rest of them; squealing like a pig, swallowing his own blood as it pours out of his throat.

Yandere turns away from him, then, turns away from the piles of gore that used to be men and looks to where Dark still lies. His feet carry him there without him trying, slow and heavy. He stares down at Dark. He’s slumped over on his side, still handcuffed, hair obscuring his face. There’s a puddle of darkening blood surrounding him. Brain matter lies in a bridge from the huge, messy bullet hole to the floor, like a lumpy, pinkish-gray slug.

Everything rushes into Yandere at once. Fear. Despair. Anguish. Disbelief. Horror. Revulsion.

He turns away, vomits onto the blood-soaked floor, and screams, long and loud, until it morphs into a wail.

Gore never bothered him before now. Blood never bothered him. Even brain didn’t; he saw plenty of it tonight as he massacred the gang. But this is _Dark,_ this is his love, his only, his senpai, the man he was created for, the reason he breathes, the reason he _lives._ His reason for living is dead. Dark is dead. Dark is dead. _Dark is dead._

“It’s not gonna – it’s not forever!” Yandere screams at himself. “He’s not g-gone forever, he’ll, he’ll–” He whirls around to look at Dark again, staggers a step backwards. “Fuck! He’ll come back! He has to, you have to, Yami, you _have_ to!! _Fuck!!”_

Yandere knows, deep down, that he will. He knows that Dark will come back. The fans will bring him back. That stupid worthless disgusting gang boss is only a stupid worthless disgusting human, and he has no power over Dark.

But Yandere remembers his and Dark’s first Valentine’s Day, remembers how it was ruined because Mark and the fans killed Dark without even trying. It took Dark a month to come back and Yandere almost hadn’t survived it. He remembers the madness, the loneliness, the terror, the despair and hopelessness lingering beneath the anguish. He never wanted to go through that again. He never wanted to go suffer that hell again. But it’s happening now, it’s here, and once again, Yandere couldn’t stop it.

He screams again through the tears, this time with unspent rage. He was there! He was_ right there,_ just across the room from Dark, and he couldn’t stop this. He couldn’t break out of the hold of the people restraining him, he couldn’t stop the gang boss from firing his gun into Dark’s head. He let Dark die. This is his fault. It’s his fault.

“I’m sorry,” Yandere sobs, falling to his knees and only barely feeling the dull pain of his knees hitting the concrete. “I’m sorry Yami, I failed you, I love you, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” He crawls to Dark, uses his katana to cut the handcuffs away from Dark’s wrists, and lies over him, weeping into his back.

Dark is cold, but he always is; he never had any warmth left in his borrowed body. His pulse is still, but it always is; Dark’s heart hasn’t beat once for as long as Yandere’s known him. But it’s different this time, the coldness and stillness are wrong, they’re terrible and quiet. Dark’s aura is practically nonexistent, merely a gray film around his body. There’s no sound of him breathing, no sound of him speaking or shifting on the ground. There’s no sound at all but Yandere’s weeping, no movement but his own chest heaving with sobs. He can hardly breathe, hardly think of anything but his grief. He feels like his heart might snap, break apart from the wails shaking it around his chest. His whole torso aches, burns with sobs. He can’t see any longer; the tears film over his vision and obscure everything around him.

The world does not exist. The world is only Dark’s lifeless body and Yandere holding onto him, moaning, wailing, screaming.

Yandere doesn’t know how long he stays like that, lying on Dark and bawling over him. He doesn’t care to know. It doesn’t matter. But eventually, a new sound enters the room: A pair of footsteps. Then, a low, impressed whistle. Finally, a voice, deep and familiar.

“You sure did a number on these guys, Yanny!” exclaims Wilford, “Just the right amount of mess, too. Just gratuitous enough.” His walking feet approach Yandere. “Oh, it’s alright, kiddo. You know Darky; he’ll bounce back in no time.”

“He didn’t after “A Date with Markiplier,”” Yandere snaps, and part of him feels bad for it, because that event hurt Wilford nearly as much. Yandere doesn’t look up, doesn’t know if Wilford’s expression changes, but fortunately his tone of voice doesn’t.

“Good point,” he admits, “But that was unusual. That was _not_ the first time Dark’s kicked the bucket, believe you me.” Yandere flinches as Wilford’s hand touches his quivering shoulder. “I don’t think Dark would be too happy with us if he woke up on the floor of an old, dirty warehouse, do you?”

“No…” Yandere whimpers.

“Then come on, then! I’ll take us home.” Wilford lifts his hand from Yandere’s shoulder. “Let’s go to the clinic; the scar won’t be as bad if Doc can fix it up!”

Yandere doesn’t react. Wilford snaps his fingers and poofs them to the clinic’s waiting room anyway.

“Hey Doc!” Wilford barks into the clinic.

“I heard you come in,” Dr. Iplier calls back, “What did you do this time?”

“Why do you _always_ blame _me_ for everything?” Wilford whines.

Yandere can imagine the dramatic expression on Wilford’s face if he tries, but he’s still crying too much to look up and see for himself. His tears are more silent now, more exhausted, aching, hollow. He still can’t stop. The tears still fall as hard as they’ve been falling all night. He can hear clearly Dr. Iplier’s approaching footsteps across the clinic tile.

“Because it’s always–” Dr. Iplier stops short with a gasp. “Oh, shit, what the hell happened!?”

It must be quite the sight; Yandere, weeping and drenched in blood, slumped over Dark’s corpse as Wilford looks on.

“I don’t know precisely,” Wilford admits, “I missed all the action, I’m afraid.”

“They killed him,” Yandere sobs, “They killed him, they killed him, I couldn’t stop them, they killed him–”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Dr. Iplier murmurs. There’s a pause as he considers the situation. “Hey, Wilford?”

“Hmm?” Wilford answers, distracted. He’s probably twirling his moustache and staring into space.

“Listen to me, Wilford,” Dr. Iplier says, solemn, “You have to stay with Yandere, alright? I have to patch Dark up, you know he’ll be mad at me if he wakes up with a worse scar than there should be. But Yandere can’t be alone right now.” Yandere feels his presence draw closer, and then his hand is in Yandere’s hair, petting gently. “Are you injured, hon?”

“He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead,” Yandere repeats, droning. It’s all his brain can come up with.

“C’mon, kiddo, let’s go,” Wilford says, voice gentler than before, “Doc’s got a job to do, and you could probably use a nap.”

Yandere doesn’t budge. Wilford grabs Yandere’s shoulders and tries to pull him, but Yandere hangs on, beginning to cry harder again.

“I’m not leaving!” he screams savagely, clinging to Dark, “I’m not leaving him! You can’t make me!!”

Wilford sighs, put-upon but maybe a bit sad, too, and grabs Yandere again, using one strong yank to wrench him off Dark and into his arms. Yandere wails, struggling fiercely.

“Let me go, let me go!” he screeches, “I need him, I need him, don’t make me leave him!! Put me down! _Kutabare!”_

“Rude,” Wilford huffs, struggling to keep Yandere in his hold. “Doc, can you sedate him or something?”

“I’ll only put him under if I can monitor him while he’s out,” Dr. Iplier answers, “And I can’t do that if I’m fixing Dark’s head.”

Fortunately for them and less so for Yandere, Yandere is too exhausted to effectively fight against Wilford’s hold much longer. His muscles scream from the exertion of his earlier massacre, his chest hurts from sobbing, his throat is raw from screaming. The fight leaves him slowly, agonizingly, and soon enough, he slumps in Wilford’s arms.

_“Kutabare, kutabare,”_ Yandere whimpers.

“Hey,” Dr. Iplier murmurs, walking to Yandere and cupping his face in his hands. Now that Yandere’s tears have slowed to a trickle, he can see Dr. Iplier before him, see the tears sparkling in his eyes to see his son so distraught. “I know you’re upset, sweetheart,” Dr. Iplier tells him, “Believe me, I know. Dark will come back, he’ll wake up in a week, probably less. I know you’re hurting so bad right now, but it’ll be okay, I promise.” He thumbs tears off Yandere’s cheeks. “I’m gonna fix up Dark so he doesn’t scar too bad when he wakes up, and you can see him when I’m done. In the meantime, for once Wilford’s right: You need a nap.” Yandere’s lips quirk; it’s almost a smile. Dr. Iplier smiles in return. “Can you stay with Wilford for me while I help Dark?”

Yandere knows he doesn’t have much choice. He’s too tired to offer up any protest. His eyes want to close.

“Okay,” he mumbles, sniffling.

“There’s my baby,” Dr. Iplier whispers tenderly, kissing Yandere’s forehead before releasing him. “Wilford, take care of him, I mean it.”

“I will,” Wilford says, serious but a little offended, as he sweeps Yandere into a bridal-style hold.

Yandere falls asleep in Wilford’s arms before they even leave the clinic, tears still sticky on his cheeks. He won’t remember his dreams, but Wilford will tell him that he cried in his sleep, adding fresh tears atop the old.

**Author's Note:**

> ;;;;;w;;;;;
> 
> Also, if all the talk of scars was confusing, I'll be explaining it better in tomorrow's prompt >w>


End file.
